Sanctuary
by Rahleigh
Summary: It's only with each other, that they ever truly feel safe. Bad Touch Trio centric drabble


_Prussia can't forget the pain, and cries, and blood of his people, spilling, soaking and staining his dreams. The memories of soldiers that his subconscious brings to life out of the dark that swallows the room. The clacking of sword against sword, and the screams of those without a means to defend themselves. The cries of the doomed, never given a second thought in the heat of battle. The imaginary enemies that seem to reach inside his chest and pull away with everything he has left, leaving him empty. He's woken up screaming more than once, writhing and thrashing away from the cold grip that threatens to crush him._

Then, like a wildfire has been lit inside of him, he's wrapped in warm, strong arms and heavy Spanish is babbled into his ear, thick with sleep and it brings with it a hot and humid Mediterranean breeze that chases the chill from his bones. The smell of pastries and flowers and France pulls him back to the living and out of the arms of his own death. Back to the body warmed bed, and sleep tangled sheets and the two people curled around him, and it's here that the ex-nation feels the safest.

* * *

_France can still feel the heat radiating from the stake where his savior burned. The stench of melting skin and crisping hair curling his toes. He couldn't look, wouldn't look, for he knew if he did, he would have to accept the truth. He turns quickly anyway, just for a small glance but is caught, eyes locking with hers. She smiles at him through the cracks and blood clinging to her skin._

The door is slammed and he again sees the rising pastry through the little window in the oven door. The bickering voices reach his ears, the mix of Spanish and German and even French, mixing and smoothing to something beautiful. He straightens up, away from the heat that calls him back to memories of a much darker time. He flutters out into the front room, drawing his friends in and in and into an embrace that he **needs**. Antonio smiles, and Gilbert rolls his eyes before working an arm out of the hug. He swipes his tongue over the pad of his thumb, rubbing the flour off of the Frenchman's cheek.

Antonio giggles and Francis grins wider, leading his friends into the kitchen and not even caring that his cheek is still wet with spit, because the heat doesn't call as fierce as it does when he is by himself, and without a second thought he reaches into the belly of the metal inferno, fishing out his finished desserts. He sets the tray down between his companions, smiling as they dig in despite the desserts not having cooled. And it's here, warm pastry in hand, that he knows he will be alright.

* * *

_Spain can't unhear the screams. His screams that echo off the salt soaked wooden walls. His arms are chained above his head and the room is swaying around him. Everything is silent save for the sound of the waves battering the ship, and his screams. Screams that have rubbed his throat raw and done little else. Somewhere on the other side of the room, the door creaks as it is opened and his screams start anew. His only reward is a back handed blow that stings his cheek more than the salt dried to his skin._

Cool wood soothes his fingers and the hand on his cheek is a gentle caress. The sound of the ocean fades back into rain pounding the window behind his head. He meets the blood red eyes of Gilbert, who strums the guitar for him before pulling the dazed Spaniard to his feet. Antonio smiles and all at once the tears are dried, and the roar of the ocean and the roar of mocking, drunken laughter fade and it's just he and Gilbert as they dance their way to the kitchen, Antonio strumming a lively tune the whole way. Gilberts slips into a salsa number Antonio had taught him long ago, Francis stepping in a moment later. Antonio knows that only Francis and himself can pull this side out of Gilbert, and he feels proud.

The skillfully woven melodies of a guitar fill their home as Gilbert and Francis continue with their dance. Antonio laughs, dancing on his own around them in time with his strums. Francis breaks away from his partner, swiping the guitar from Antonio picking up the song easily. Gilbert takes his hand and twirls him, his world blurring and all he can see is a pair of red eyes and a head of blonde hair before being pulled in close. He hasn't stopped laughing, even as they switch again and he is dancing with Francis. He doesn't plan to, he's too happy, wrapped in the music and the arms of his friends, best friends, and he can't think of place he would rather be. This is his sanctuary.


End file.
